


New Dad

by 2W_NikiAngel



Series: Birthday Fanfictions Project [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, But not the sexy one you're thinking about, Daddy Issues, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Not Beta Read, just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: “Do you ever want kids?” Feuilly covered Bruno up to his neck and took a thermometer out of his mouth. His fever had subsided a little, but he was still sweating and his face was red. Winter has always been the worst time in an orphanage. It was enough for one child to become infected from school, and in a moment all the children went to bed with fevers. This winter was no exception. But Bruno needed special supervision, his weak heart slowly ceasing to control the onset of fever.Feuilly sat on the edge of the bed. Bruno turned on his side, pulled his hand out from under the blanket, and began looking for his. Feuilly grabbed him and squeezed hard. Bruno smiled from his sleep. “Yes,” he replied tenderly. “And you?”“I don't know,” Bahorel admitted. “Children are still strangers to me, but after that year and a half here - like, I guess so. But maybe not mine.”Feuilly looked at Bahorel in surprise. “Don't you say you want to adopt some?”[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: friendship - Bahorel/Feuilly
Series: Birthday Fanfictions Project [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917910





	New Dad

**Author's Note:**

> The year 2020 is, I dare say, a really crazy ride for most of us. Although I tried to avoid the chaos around me and keep my typical, positive attitude, the year itself caught up with me at the beginning of the summer, and only now could I rest. Illness, family issues and much more that took my energy and desire to write.
> 
> But today I can finally say that the first Birthday Fanfiction Project is done and I hope you enjoy the results! Thank you all for your support!

Bahorel turned off the alarm on his phone, looked at his watch, and grunted in displeasure. He rolled over and wanted to curl up again when he noticed a pink piece of paper on which was neatly written -  _ You can do it today!! F _ . At that moment, Bahorel was awake. His heart was pounding, his ears were whistling, and blood was pouring into his face. He got up quickly, hid his cell phone in his backpack at the foot of the bed and put on the things he had neatly folded in a chair beside his desk. He dressed, went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out his favorite currant juice. The red on his face was a little darker again. He drank quickly, left the open bottle on the line, and left the empty apartment without another word. He stopped when he closed the door behind him and there was a familiar click of the lock. He rested his hand on the railing by the stairs and sighed. Is it possible that he regretted it? He still wanted to lay down on the duvet - not because he was tired, but because that they were so warm, pleasant and—

He shook his head. He had to go.

“Mr. Bahorel, I had no idea I would ever see you again,” said Professor Durand, placing a blank paper and a black pencil in front of him. “Some professors have already told me that you have re-entered the lectures and this time you are really trying. Have you finally decided that being a lawyer is not a bad commodity?” He didn’t wait for an answer and began handing out papers to other students. As soon as he handed everything out, he checked his watch, and when the big hand on the clock hit zero, he clapped. The test began.

Bahorel’s fingers tapped and his palms were sweaty. He kept wiping them on his pants and pounding his fingers on the wooden table. He knocked the rhythm of his beating heart. Why was he so sweaty, actually? Because of the heat in the classroom? Or because of a test that made him nervous? Or because of what Durand said? He looked ahead. Durand sat behind the chair, his eyes on them all. His heart pounded even more as their eyes met.

_ Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, _ he kept thinking in his head. He looked at himself on the board, read the questions Durand had written to them before the class began. He looked back at the paper. He wrote his answers on both sides. He looked at the clock, which showed that only half an hour had passed. Is it possible that he was done? He never cared about tests and never wrote them; so is it possible that they have always been so easy?

He couldn’t stand the heat. He stood up, slung his backpack over his back, took the paper and pencil in his hand, and put them on Durand’s desk. “Done?” He asked in surprise, taking the paper right away. He studied him with his eyes for a moment, frowning, tapping his finger on his lip. “I can’t promise you right away, but I think you’ll pass my subject this year.” He looked at Bahorel and nodded contentedly. “You can go.”

Bahorel came out in front of the classroom, closed behind him, and leaned his back against the door. He took several deep breaths and exhaled. It was cold and quiet in the hallway. He sat down on a bench next to the classroom and closed his eyes. He needed a moment of rest.

“Look, I don’t want to sound too gay, but you look hot.” Bahorel stopped chewing on his favorite beef burger and looked at his friend, who was winking at him innocently. “I said I don’t want to sound too gay.”

Bahorel had an insult on his tongue, a sarcastic remark, an ironic message he would use as a false flirtatious tactic; but now that he opened his mouth, he could only growl, “Um.” He measured his burger with  _ that  _ look. Has the cheese always smelled so strong? And the tomatoes with salad were so wet? And was that bun always so stiff? Or was it just mysteriously hard to chew now?

“Good?” His friend asked as he drank his beer.

Bahorel looked at his reflection in the mirror that was on the walls of the restaurant everywhere. Bahorel was a little paler and may have had his pupils slightly outstretched than normal, but he looked different - how so? He barely recognized himself. His hair was combed and gelled. A fitting, white shirt, provocatively unbuttoned so that his collarbones could be seen. He had a gold necklace around his neck, which he received as a gift from his beloved grandmother before she died of pneumonia. He had an expensive watch on his left hand, which he had received from his friends as a present for his twenty-five birthday; on the right a knitted, blue bracelet he bought at the beginning of the semester for good luck. The black pants were neither too loose nor too tight, accentuating his long, elaborate, slender legs. The strap on them was genuine leather. He wore leather, black boots.

He looked  _ great _ .

Bahorel smiled, said, “Good,” and took a bite of the burger again.

“Could I exchange a few words with you?” Asked Don, his boxing coach, who was cooling a fresh cut under his eye with frozen vegetables. It was still bleeding a little. Bahorel rose from the mat and walked to the corner of the room. Don looked around to make sure no one was listening, and immediately playfully slapped Bahorel in the shoulder. “Dude, you’re awesome! Perhaps I last saw such a grip at the championship.”

“Thanks,” Bahorel said, still rubbing his shoulder, which hurt a little under his touch.

“Look, I talked to the boys and we agreed that we want you on the team for the tournament.”

Bahorel’s eyes widened. “R-really? But I’m—”

“-Novice? Doesn’t matter. You’re a talent! And that is the main thing.”

“I don’t know if I'll be enough for you.”

“Oh, please, where did the proud Bahorel go, who could even eat a live duck for a place in the tournament?” Bahorel had the impression that he had really said that once. “We will be glad if you join. Like, if you don’t want to, it’s okay, of course, I’ll ask—”

“No, no, I’ll be glad,” Bahorel said immediately, smiling.

Don grinned as if someone had just told him he had won a million. “Great! I’ll tell the others! Otherwise, great training.”

“That’s what I should tell you, Coach.”

“God, you are so nice, what happened to you?” Don laughed as he walked around him.

“W-what happened to me?” Bahorel repeated, turning.

Don packed his backpack and thought. “Well, do you remember?I usually only wanted to talk to you when you decided to break someone’s nose over there or stab the punching bag with your knife again, because I told you not to come here until you calmed down or changed pills for your aggression?” Bahorel was sure he was red as a tomato. Was he really ashamed of this behavior now? Wasn'’t he always like that by chance? “But it’s a nice change, seriously. We all noticed.” Don slung his backpack over his shoulder and stood up. “You’re just suddenly so  _ fine _ .”

Bahorel said nothing more and preferred to go to wash himself. His face was pink when he left. He believed the heat from the shower was to blame.

When he opened the refrigerator, he found that from a small piece of cheese, two old sausages that no longer looked edible, and three onions, he probably wouldn’t make dinner. He paid no attention to the beers he had stored in the compartment. He sat down on the couch, picked up his cell phone, and began to look for any of his favorite restaurants. He found that they were all too far away. He frowned. How was that possible?

He began to think about going out to eat, perhaps eating some fast food, though he could still feel the burger weighing on his stomach; when he received a text message. When he read it, the world suddenly became a quiet, still place.

Only one name was written in the message.

_ Pierre _ .

The cell phone slipped from his hands and landed on the tiles. According to the sound that followed, the display probably broke. Bahorel looked at his fingers. They were shaking. Sweat returned to his palms. The blush on his face was replaced by pale color. “Pierre,” he whispered. His name created a bitterness in his mouth that couldn’t be swallowed. His stomach heaved.

Bahorel rose. He looked around. Clothes, garbage, plates and beer cans were scattered everywhere. Somewhere in the room, he smelled a strange odor, the origin of which he didn’t even want to know. Somewhere in his head, a voice shouted at him that he had a goldfish. He hurried to the hall, put on his shoes, picked up his backpack, and left. He almost couldn’t lock it. He looked at the mailbox with several flyers sticking out. And was it even necessary to lock it when it still seemed that no one was living in the apartment?

He ran away.

Bahorel looked at the white door with the blue trim, the number 72, hand-made of wood, the golden handle, which must have been freshly polished, the shrub with the yellow flowers that was in a pot by the stairs that led to the next floor.

He knocked. Nothing.

He rang. Nothing.

He knelt, ran his hand through the flowerpot, felt the key, and inserted the key into the lock. When he unlocked the door, he took a deep breath. Was he afraid the door wouldn’t open? That someone had changed the lock panel during the day and would never have gotten inside again? When he opened it, a pleasant scent of lavender, vanilla and lemon hit him in the nose. His whole body embraced the warmth of the apartment and calmed his pounding heart.

He smiled. He entered the apartment, closed it behind him, took off his shoes, hung his backpack on a hanger and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and picked up the box with a written  _ Bahorel  _ on it. He put the box in the microwave and watched the food heat up. When it was warm, he loaded everything from the box to a plate.  _ Coq au vin _ . His favorite dish. So he assumed he would succeed today. He only cooked this when he was sure Bahorel would be in a good mood.

But the name -  _ Pierre, Pierre, Pierre _ \- kept ringing in his head.

The food was excellent but bitter in his mouth.

How long did he sit at the table? Few minutes? Half an hour? A few hours? He had no idea. Absently, he poked the fork into the mushroom he had left on his plate and kept it soaked in the sauce. A touch on his shoulders brought him to reality. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Yet the touch surprised him. He jerked his head to the side, his nose rubbing against his shaved, smooth, freckled face. “Feuilly.” It was the first word he’d uttered since four in the afternoon talking to Don. He looked with his eyes at the wall where the large clocks hung. It was almost ten in the evening. When was the last time he was silent for so long?

Feuilly straightened, reached for Bahorel, and helped him to his feet. “I already know it, too,” he said abruptly, taking off his black jacket and throwing it over his chair. “We should go to sleep.”

“Can I take a shower before that?” Bahorel asked quietly, almost as if afraid to ask.

But Feuilly reassured him with his typical, warm smile. “Of course.”

That was all Bahorel needed. He went to the bathroom, sat in the bathtub and was stroked by hot water. His eyes examined Feuilly’s shampoos and shower gels. They all had the same thing - they were citrus scented, natural and not tested on animals. Feuilly relied on the  _ little things _ he called his habits. He reached for a dark orange tube, flooded the bathroom with an orange scent, and washed himself. He believed that for a few minutes he would fall asleep under the sweet smell and warm embrace of water.

As he left the bathroom, Feuilly sat in the same spot as him, holding a glass of wine between his fingers in an elegant gesture. He had a few drops left. Feuilly soon noticed him, gave him a smile, and immediately said, “Go to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.” And Bahorel obeyed.

The hand on the clock was approaching half past ten. Bahorel stared at the ceiling, which was occasionally illuminated by car lights from the street. Thanks to them, he saw small stars, which were laboriously painted on the ceiling.  _ Pierre, Pierre, Pierre _ , Bahorel still heard in his head. His temples throbbed. He wanted to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he saw nothing. The body felt no relief like in the bathtub. Should he sleep in it?

Feuilly entered the room, closed the door behind him, set his nicely folded clothes on the table, and walked over to the bed. Bahorel didn’t move as he lay down. He was still lying on his back, his eyes watching the ceiling. Feuilly lay on his side, placing one hand under his head and the other reaching for Bahorel. He succumbed to instinct and -  _ habit _ . He stroked his cheek, once, twice, three times. He closed his eyes and squinted contentedly as Feuilly began massaging his hair. “Better?” He asked. Bahorel didn’t answer, just opened his eyes and tried to find Feuilly in the room. But it was too dark, he could only feel his touches. Feuilly approached Bahorel, pressing his fingers against his head, forcing him to move a little lower. Bahorel’s nose hit Feuilly’s chest, his ears flooded with the harmony of his regularly pounding heart. Their legs were intertwined, Bahorel wrapped his arms around the younger man’s hips and Feuilly around his shoulders. “Is it better now?” He asked again as he stroked his hair, Bahorel snarling contentedly this time.

After a few minutes, Bahorel broke the silence in the room with the name, “Pierre.”

“Oh, I know,” Feuilly whispered softly as he kissed Bahorel in the hair. “I got a message this morning, Christiane asked me if she should let you know too, because…”' He didn’t answer. But they both knew why —  _ because he was no one to Pierre _ — at least that’s what important documents based deep in Christian’s desk files reported.

“Will he be alright?”

“Of course. The Petits’ are a wonderful couple and they really wanted him to be their son.”

“Son…”

Bahorel dug his nose into Feuilly’s chest and pressed himself even harder. Feuilly kissed his hair and whispered, “All right, Bahorel, is it okay  _ now _ ?” Bahorel knew very well what he was asking him. Instead of answering, he squeezed his side. Feuilly chuckled. He understood.

Bahorel never really knew when it all started and when it happened. And so every time he was so close to Feuilly, squeezed on his soft body in bed or ate his delicious food, every time he didn’t feel at his best; he remembered  _ everything _ .

_ “A hot night?” Bahorel’s laugh was heard in the entire Café Musain. Their friends exchanged glances - some amused, some annoyed, some disgusted - but no one decided to disturb them. Courfeyrac rested his hands on his chin and sipped from his cold ice cream cocktail with a straw. Feuilly had only known them for a few hours, but he recognized that the smalles of them was the biggest gossip, and from the determination he urged Feuilly to answer Bahorel, these scandals probably didn’t happen often. _

_ “No,” Feuilly replied with a smile, unbuttoning his shirt even more. He revealed his freckled shoulders, which still had a few red spots on them. “It’s a color. I think these are some children’s water colours? They’re not toxic at all, but I can’t scrub them off,” he complained as he buttoned his shirt back to his neck. “I was babysitting in the orphanage yesterday when one of the educators fell ill.” He pointed to a bloody spot under Bahorel’s eye. “Hot night?” He repeated the same question. _

_ Bahorel scratched his neck, laughing, red on his face, saying, “And you can’t even imagine how much!” _

_ “Feuilly! Feuilly!” Bahorel was right in the middle of his story of how he had fought with someone again, when there was a child’s cry and laughter. In a moment, two boys ran up to them and threw themselves around Feuilly’s side. They couldn’t be more than six years old. “I learned my role yesterday!” Shouted the boy with the green cap on his head. “And I memorized the song!” Right after, the one with sheep’s curly hair began to hum a rhythm. _

_ Feuilly knelt to see their faces. “That’s great, Louis, Eric. I'm so proud of you.” He stroked their hair. Wide smiles appeared on the boy’s faces. _

_ An elderly woman appeared on the corner of the street, holding two ice cream cones in her hand and scolding both boys with a scolding look. “That’s how you run away from me? I understand you prefer Feuilly, but you wouldn’t have to make it so obvious.” _

_ Both boys laughed and ran back to the woman. “Tomorrow, Feuilly!” They waved for another minute before disappearing from sight. _

_ “Children from the orphanage,” Feuilly said, explaining as Bahorel looked at him with a raised eyebrow and an inquisitive look. “This year we will present a fairy tale at the city festivities. So I teach them. You can come and see if you want.”  _

_ “I don’t really know if I like children,” Bahorel said truthfully as he sat with Feuilly on a bench by a large lake feeding ducks. The full moon and stars reflected off the water. It was almost two hours after the performance with the children from the orphanage was over. It was a typical children’s performance with lots of mistakes in script and bad intonations when singing. The whole game was interwoven with amateurism. But when Feuilly appeared on stage, the children grabbed his hands and together bowed to the audience - of whom there could be a maximum of fifteen - he applauded as well. When he saw how happy Feuilly was, he felt twitches and pressure on his face, which made him laugh as well. He didn’t understand it. _

_ “It’s okay, not everyone is born as a family type.” He tossed the last piece of bread to the ducks and sat down on the ground so he could lie down. He put his hands behind his head and looked at the bright moon. “I love children.” _

_ “They’re just little people who don't understand anything and are still confused.” _

_ “So like you when you’re drunk.” _

_ “Do you think I’m like a child?!” Bahorel hissed an octave higher as he straightened and showed his muscles in a solid tank top. _

_ Feuilly laughed. “You’re reminding me of one naughty boy right now.” _

_ Bahorel shook his head, rolled his eyes, and preferred to speak about something else. He didn’t want to explain why he suddenly felt blood and pressure on his chest that just scared him. _

_ “I thought you didn’t like children.” Feuilly leaned over Bahorel, resting his hands on his shoulders and looking at the work he was creating. “What’s that supposed to be?” _

_ “I didn’t say I didn’t like them, just that I don’t know if I like them,” Bahorel corrected, slapping his hand on the paper in front of him. He made a blue decal on it. “And don’t you see it’s a turkey?” _

_ “Since when does a turkey have blue feathers?” _

_ “From now on,” Bahorel said, examining the work proudly. _

_ “That's nice!” A little girl with cute ponytails and glasses ran up to Bahorel. “Is that a helicopter?” _

_ Feuilly buried his nose in Bahorel’s hair and began to laugh softly. “No,” Bahorel said rudely. The girl jumped a little and without another word sat down next to the boy, who tried to paint the round sun. He had only a huge, yellow stain on the paper. “She should go check her glasses, for fuck say, that’s a clear turkey, isn’t it!?” _

_ “Sure,” Feuilly laughed, finally pulling away from him. He patted Bahorela on the shoulder a few times and leaned toward his ear. “Absolutely perfect, Bahorel, go ahead. You're handy.” With that, he went to the other children, who were trying to paint something with their own fingers on the papers in front of them. Feuilly praised each of them and stroked their hairs as if it were his job. _

_ Bahorel laid the picture back on the table and looked at its edge. His heart was pounding. _

_ “I’m sorry for being late! But there was such a situation…” Everyone turned to the front door of the café, where Feuilly and three children stood. “Sit in the corner over there and choose what you’d like from the menu, okay?” They all nodded contentedly, ran to one of the back tables, and began arguing about which one to win the biggest ice cream. Feuilly walked over to Enjolras and looked at him apologetically. “Marcel—” Bahorel remembered the name, it was the father of the orphanage’s director who sometimes helped out “—needed to go somewhere, and no one have time to care about them today. So I offered. I promise they won't disturb us. They are good children.” _

_ “All right, Feuilly,” Enjolras said, smiling fondly at him. Now the weakness the blond had for him suited him. “I won’t even force you to talk today, pay attention to them, but please listen. You know how important your opinion is to me — to  _ us,  _ i mean.” _

_ Feuilly sat down with the children, ordered them what they wanted, and spoke to them. Instead of perceiving what Enjolras was saying, Bahorel constantly watched Feuilly. As he laughed, he talked to the children, took a coloring book from his backpack, and quietly recited poems with them that they must have known for school. _

_ Bahorel was able to forget the annoying pressure on his chest after a lot of drinks that night. _

_ “Watch out! On your right!” Bahorel swerved to the left to avoid another blow. He covered his face with his bandaged hands and kicked. Within seconds, the opponent collapsed in pain on the ground. He held his stomach and cursed softly. A faint pool of blood formed under his mouth. A man ran up to him, looked at him, counted to ten, and shouted loudly, “Bahorel won!” _

_ There was cheer in the hall, Bahorel raised his hands, one of his trainers jumped around his neck and patted him on the back. As soon as they detached, he walked over to the boy, who was still rolling on the ground, and shook his hand to help him up. When the boy finally straightened up, he examined the wound above his lip, for which he apologized, they patted each other on the back brotherly and said goodbye. _

_ Bahorel was packing his things when Feuilly ran up to him. “Wow, you were amazing!” Bahorel blinked a few times and scratched his hair. “I had no idea you were so good at boxing.” _

_ “It was nothing,” he said with pride in his voice, hoping he wouldn’t know how nervous the words made him. _

_ “Nothing? Although I’m not into this, I still take boxing as a very violent sport and I never really understood its beauty… but - wow. Now I understand. It’s not just about beating. It has its charm. You were really amazing, Bahorel, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” Bahorel found himself staring at Feuilly. He didn’t even blink. Beautiful face, bright eyes, and a smile that could blind several men. “I felt almost like a proud father,” the younger laughed. “I’m really proud of you, Bahorel.” _

_ “Say it once again.” _

_ “W-what?” _

_ Bahorel suddenly realized what he had said. He quickly slung his backpack over his shoulder, muttered something about  _ having to go _ , and left the hall quickly. He thought all night about what Feuilly had told him. _

_ And that stupid heart was pounding harder and faster. _

_ “Doesn’t it sound a little like I’m in love?” Bahorel tossed a cigarette butt from the balcony. Even in the dark, thanks to the still-burning filter, he saw it fall to the ground. _

_ Feuilly stretched like a cat, finished his beer, and leaned his back against the railing. “Maybe. I’m not very experienced in love.” _

_ “Don’t tell,” Bahorel laughed, raising an eyebrow several times. “Kids are still spinning around you, the girl's panties must fall out by itself.” _

_ “I don’t care much about girls.” Bahorel's eyes widened. Feuilly just laughed. “Surprised?” Instead of answering, Bahorel approached Feuilly, closed his eyes, and kissed him. His delicate lips still tasted of beer. He was warm. He smelled of cinnamon and burnt wood, probably new cologne. But what he perceived the most was -  _ nothing  _ he felt. He pulled away from him, opened his eyes, and looked confused at his frowning friend. “And what the  _ fuck  _ was that?” This was the first time he’d heard Feuilly say a foul word. _

_ “Well, I-I thought—” He cleared his throat, ran his hand through his thick hair, which he hadn’t cut in months, and began to fall on his shoulders. “You know what, fireworks of emotions, an explosion of ecstasy and such bullshit.” _

_ "It only happens in books, Bahorel. Or it only works for the people you love. ” _

_ “But I—” He didn’t finish. _

_ Feuilly raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say the person you were talking about was me?” The answer was the red skin on his face. Feuilly laughed and wanted to drink again when he realized he had nothing left. “You’re stupid.” _

_ “Excuse me!” _

_ “Just because your heart is pounding whenever we’re together doesn’t mean you love me, Bahorel. Maybe you just want to fuck me.” _

_ “That’s possible." But he didn’t admit that he hadn’t felt so intense with anyone yet. _

_ Feuilly walked to the balcony door and turned to Bahorel, who was absently massaging his lips, as if trying to find an answer to a question he didn’t even know, before entering Jehan’s apartment to have another beer in his refrigerator. He felt a little sorry for him. “Or maybe I’m just doing something that impresses you. It doesn’t have to be love, Bahorel.” _

_ That night was the last time they had ever talked about love. _

_ “Bahorel!” The brunette couldn’t catch his breath, his hands on the ground, trying to get up. It didn’t work. As if some force was holding him to the ground. “Bahorel!” The voice was a little closer. When he smelled the familiar scent of burnt wood and the hot hands that touched his shoulders, he knew very well who it was. “Can you hear me, Bahorel? Bahorel?!” He couldn’t even answer him. _

_ He only vaguely remembered that someone had laid him on the ground. His head was shaking and his whole body ached. He couldn’t feel his feet. He frowned. That probably wasn’t a good sign, was it? He then felt something cold on his forehead, neck and chest. He just welcomed it in the steamy heat. The cold compress restored his lungs to his ability to breathe again. He smiled. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of sirens. Then only a few hands, strong and gloved, which placed him on the lounger that rumbled all the way. “I’ll go with you and I don’t care what you tell me. You won’t kick me out of this ambulance, even if you’re four against me. Feel free to complain, but he won’t be left alone.” He couldn’t help but smile again before falling asleep. _

_ It was night when he woke up. Next to his head was a beep that measured his pressure. He had a cannula inserted in his right hand into which a clear liquid flowed. He had both feet in gypsum. Feuilly still held his left hand. He was sitting in a chair next to his bed. When their eyes met, Feuilly released him, leaping to the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around him. It hurt madly. He hissed unhappily, but the younger one would not let him go. “You idiot, you’re to blame! Illegal matches, how could it have occurred to you?!” _

_ Bahorel was silent for a moment before saying weakly, “M-money…” _

_ “Because of the money, you decided you’d rather be a disabled person your whole life?!” He pulled away from him, gripped his face with his hands, and looked into his eyes. He didn’t blink. He was serious. “We’ll find you a normal job with a better salary, feel free to go to boxing and tournaments, but no more illegal things like that! Okay?” Bahorel was about to object, but Feuilly squeezed him a little harder. “Understand?” _

_ “Y-yes,” Bahorel whispered exhausted, closing his eyes. He wanted to sleep again. _

_ “Okay.” Feuilly exhaled aloud, released him, and ran his fingers over a few bruises that began to discolor on his collarbones. “Never scare me like that again, okay?” Bahorel nodded with all his might. “Sleep. You need to rest.”  _

_ The last thing he felt was Feuilly’s long fingers, which began to massage his hair. _

_ “Enough.” Feuilly knelt and touched the boy’s shoulder in front of him. He had cute puffy cheeks, hands resting on his chest, and tapped with a small foot. “Is that how the right man behaves?” _

_ “But she started it!” He pointed to the girl in front of him, who was crying in the arms of one of the educators. She held a doll in her hand, the doll's dress torn. _

_ “And how did she start that?” _

_ “She wanted to play with the doll rather than with me,” the boy said, blushing. The girl looked at him in confusion and pulled the snots back into her nose several times. _

_ Feuilly sighed. “So you wanted to get her attention by force?” The boy just snorted and began to watch the corner of the room. “You can’t do that, Vincent. We treat women politely, with humility and always respect their opinion. Okay?” _

_ “But-” _

_ “No  _ but _.” _

_ “You’re kind to everyone!” The boy shouted, pointing to Bahorel. “I believe he doesn’t treat girls like that!" _

_ Feuilly looked at Bahorel and tilted his head to the side. “Really? So, Bahorel, tell us how you treat women?” _

_ Bahorel frowned. Everyone knew he was definitely not the best prototype gentleman. At times he behaved rudely, he had inappropriate remarks, he even earned a few slaps and spilled drinks into his crotch for his vulgar jokes. Sometimes his arrogance paid off, and more naive girls believed him. He didn’t like breaking their hearts afterwards, but he never felt guilty about it. He swallowed loudly. He certainly couldn’t say that out loud. “You have to treat women like…” He thought. When his mother raised him, she always had an analogy for such things. And this was— “… like princesses.” _

_ “So just kidnap them and lock them in the tower?” The boy asked with sparks in his eyes, and the girl cried out loud again. _

_ “No,” Feuilly said, trying to drive away the smile the analogy on his face. He needs to be serious. It was time for a lesson. “Women are like flowers. And what do you do if you want them to grow beautifully?” _

_ “Giving them water?” _

_ “Yes. And if you don’t take care of them, what will happen?” _

_ “They die.” _

_ “Correct. Imagine that Amelia is a flower. And your love for her is water. She needs a lot of water to grow and be happy. But if you hurt her, you will break her leaves, flowers and over time it will wither. And then it dries. Even your water will not save this flower after that. Do you understand what I mean?” _

_ The boy just nodded, walked over to the girl, who clung even more to the nurse, began to play with his fingers, and looked nervously at the toes of his shoes. “A-Amelia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it wrong. I-I just wanted to play. With you.” Amelia wiped away her tears. “C-can we play together later?” Amelia thought for a moment, looked at the educator, at Feuilly and Bahorel, and then whispered softly, “...Okay.” _

_ “Crisis over,” Feuilly said contentedly as he got up, said goodbye to everyone in the room, and left Bahorel with the orphanage. _

_ “Nice comparison, even though it had a few cracks, because the girls are definitely not—” _

_ “Mr. Petit told me.” Bahorel paused. He had heard a lot about this deceased gentleman. He was the director of an orphanage when Feuilly was a little boy. He liked him, and Mr. Petit told him that if he had the opportunity to raise anyone from the orphanage, he would be a clear choice for him. He loved him as his own son. He died of cancer five years ago. Feuilly still had pictures at home that they painted together and some photos of him. He took him as his own family member. _

_ “Oh,” Bahorel said, and this time he decided to leave his comments for later. _

_ “I hope Vincent understands that. He’s a little like you.” _

_ Bahorel frowned. “Like me?” He didn’t seem to look like the little blue-eyed, curly boy, who still had red cheeks and ears from blushing or screaming. _

_ “He also plays the role of tough guy, and he’s actually a very nice guy." _

_ “Shut up.” Feuilly just laughed at Bahorel’s red face. _

_ “So tell me, how's the job search going?” _

_ “Not so good.” _

_ “Have you been to an interview at the company I sent you to already?” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

_ “And you're going to go there like that?” _

_ Bahorel finally put down the magazine and looked at Feuilly, who was measuring him with his eyes. Torn jeans, a yellow shirt that was more unbuttoned than buttoned, greasy hair, and an unshaven face for almost two months. “Problem?” _

_ “You look awful.” _

_ “You don’t look like a man from a modeling agency website either.” _

_ Feuilly threw his favorite leather jacket at Bahorel. “Get up. We’re going shopping.” _

_ Bahorel didn’t even have time to protest. In an hour he was standing in the booth, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked so unnatural. Tight, black pants with a brown, elegant belt and a black shirt. “Are you done?” Feuilly stepped impatiently in front of the booth. Bahorel came out of it, looked at Feuilly, and grunted in displeasure. “Why are you looking like this? You look great.” He moved closer to fasten his shirt to his neck. _

_ “It's strangling,” the elder complained, about unbuttoning his shirt. _

_ Feuilly didn’t comment. He pointed to the red tie in his hands. “Tie it.” Bahorel didn’t move. “What? Don’t you know how to tie it?”B ahorel wondered what to tell him for a moment, but instead of a clever remark, he finally shook his head. He had never done that in his life. “You're impossible.” Feuilly complained before taking his tie from him and tying it carefully around his neck. “Didn’t your dad teach you how to do that?” _

_ Bahorel winced. Feuilly stopped tying his tie and looked him in the face. His gaze was absent. After a moment, he chuckled and said, “Somehow Dad was too busy fucking our neighbor’s wife and drinking beer.” Feuilly shoved Bahorel. He slammed his back against the glass in the booth. “W-wha—” _

_ “Look.” Feuilly grabbed Bahorel by the shoulders, turned him to the mirror, made him sit on a small chair. “First you put it around your neck, you start wrapping both ends together…” Feuilly slowly explained the whole binding. As soon as he tied the tie around his neck, he untied it again and started again. The next time he repeated it, he gave Bahorel a tie and forced him to try it himself. Succeeded. It was a little crooked, and the inside of the tie was longer than the outside, but Feuilly still pressed himself against Bahorel, adjusted the knot at his neck, and rubbed his face against his. “Look at you. You look like a real man now.” _

_ If only he hadn’t blushed and sweated so damn much. _

_ “Do you have parents?” Bahorel stopped working, little shocked by the question because he wanted to say  _ Why the fuck wouldn't he have them  _ when he realized he’d been asked by a little boy growing up in an orphanage. Bahorel didn’t even remember his name, but for the last two months he had been by Feuilly’s side every minute like a lost puppy, constantly demanding his attention. He got on his nerves. _

_ “Yeah,” he said simply, returning to the cardboard he was painting green. Two weeks ago, Bahorel offered to help Feuilly’s drama club. Little did he know that his help would include creating scenery. He was still dirty and everything was falling out of his hand. But it was still better than sitting at a sewing machine like Feuilly and sewing costumes. _

_ “Me too,” the boy said proudly, making another red spot in the green field. Bahorel wanted to tell him that apples definitely didn’t look like this, and he should try a little harder to do so, but when he saw what his tree looked like - a big, green  _ something _ \- he closed his mouth. “My parents couldn’t keep me. Because I’m too demanding. Don’t you know what that could mean? Feuilly told me that when I got older, I would understand. But I want to understand now.” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ “Bruno, are you distracting Bahorol from work again?” Feuilly stood in front of them, arms folded at his side, eyebrows raised. Bruno jumped to his feet and began waving a brush around him, making excuses that he just wanted to talk. A few drops of red paint ended up on clothes of all three men. “Go to the kitchen, Christiane has prepared something good for all of you to eat.” Bruno’s eyes lit up, he dropped the brush and ran inside, joining the other children. Feuilly waited until he disappeared through the door and turned to Bahorel, “Didn’t he want to know if you had parents?” _

_ Bahorel nodded. “Yeah. He said something about being too demanding.” _

_ Feuilly sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He was pretty sweaty. He could already see himself cooling down thanks to some swim in the lake. He missed swimming. He had almost no time for himself now - he was still at  _ Friends of ABC _ meetings, at an orphanage or at work. His days began to slowly fade. “This is going to be hard.” He sat down next to Bahorel and took a deep breath.  _

_ Bahorel made a few more moves before finally asking curiously, “What did he mean by being demanding? He told me that he has parents.” _

_ “That can’t afford his cure.” Bahorel turned sharply to Feuilly, who just smiled sadly at him and nodded. “Asthma, allergies, atopic eczema and a weak heart. You’d say it's nothing terrible, and if I hadn’t told you now, you wouldn’t have known he was sick. But treatment is expensive, the insurance company pays only less than a tenth percent of the pills he needs, and his parents - a young, seventeen-year-old girl who became pregnant with a guy ten years older who doesn’t work and doesn’t want to change that - just don’t have the money. Once they came up with the idea that a social worker had sent them here and agreed that Bruno would be here like on holidays. He was always here three days a week, we made sure he got some new clothes, he always had something to eat and most importantly, he started going to school because he was quite behind other children. Then three became five days, then a week, then they visit only once a month. They always said the same thing -  _ It's getting better, next time we’ll come for him and take him home _. They haven’t been here in a year.” _

_ Bahorel’s eyes wided a little. “Seriously?” _

_ “Yeah. We don’t even know if they’re still in Paris at all. They lived such a pretty wild life. Alcohol, drugs, casual sex. In fact, I’m quite glad that Bruno didn’t pay attention to what was happening around him a year and a half ago. Or that he hadn’t been a part of it — if I take the fact that his dad had his drugs just rolled on the table, he could have come up with something at any time, tasting something—” Feuilly gritted his teeth. _

_ “Dad’s probably got it in their blood.” Feuilly frowned at a sign he didn’t understand. “My dad also left booze bottles everywhere. So they were mostly drunk, but you know - child curiosity. When I was about six or seven, I came from school, my mother was at work, my father was asleep in front of the television, as always, drunk. And in front of him lay an unfinished beer. What do you think? Of course I drank it. Everything in one breath. I immediately shuffled and vomited. That woke dad up, and instead of asking what’s wrong with me, he beat me. For drinking his last beer. When I could no longer defend myself and lay on the ground with my lip torn, my father simply went to the pub. I didn’t see him until three days later.” _

_ “Bahorel-” _

_ “It’s past.” _

_ “But-” _

_ “Should I make the sunshine?” Feuilly understood that Bahorel didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He just nodded and handed him the yellow color. But then Bahorel felt Feuilly’s gaze on his back all day. _

_ “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Bahorel, happy birthday to you!” _

_ “But it’s not my birthday,” Bahorel said, hungrily hypnotizing his favorite plum cakes, a small candle in one of them. _

_ “But you do,” Feuilly said as he sat down next to him. “It’s been a year since you started helping me at the orphanage.” _

_ “A year?” Bahorel asked in surprise as he blew out the candle and immediately bit into one of the cakes. He moaned blissfully. _

_ “Yes,” Feuilly laughed. “In truth, that’s something I never expected.” _

_ “Why?” Bahorel asked, his mouth full. “I like helping people.” _

_ “I know that. But with children? You told me that you didn’t like them.” _

_ “Well, I don’t - I don’t really know.” Bahorel just shrugged. It didn’t seem important to him. He always knew he was doing it mainly because he was with Feuilly. He enjoyed being in his presence. Even though they weren’t having fun at the moment, the mere thought of being next to or near him was enough to keep him relaxed and content. But he didn’t have to admit it. “Do you have a present for me?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Well, it’s my  _ birthday _.” _

_ “Birthdays aren’t about gifts." _

_ “But they are! Who says that they don't want anything, is lying!” _

_ “You’re spoiled.” _

_ “My parents didn’t raise me very well, I’m right?” _

_ It was just an innocent remark, but it still stuck in Feuilly’s heart. During the year they had spent two days a week together in an orphanage, he had heard several family stories. But neither of them were happy. But Bahorel never complained, always just shrugged, said something about  _ not choosing your family _ , and talked about something else again. Feuilly discovered that the only good soul in his life was his mother. But she was quiet and unable to defend herself. After thirteen years of relationship with his father, she ran away. Bahorel never blamed her, but it lifted pressure on Feuilly’s chest. A young, abandoned boy who remained at the mercy of his aggressive, rude, drunk father. _

_ Feuilly smiled. “So what about this?” He leaned over to Bahorel, and he wanted to argue that he wasn’t interested in sex with him — he’d realized that a year ago — but instead he felt just warmth. Feuilly hugged him. He pressed against him and buried his fingers in his hair. Leaning over to his ear, he began to whisper softly, “I’m so proud of you, Bahorel.” Bahorel jumped. He had heard these words for the second time in his life. And they were said by Feuilly again. And they almost caused him a heart attack. His heart began to pound when he heard his own pulse in his ears. “I’m very proud of you,” he repeated. “I never knew that someone like you, who is so rough and blunt on the surface, is actually good at the bone. I’m proud to get along with the kids, even if you don’t love these  _ little people _ , as you like to call them. I’m proud you finally found a job. I’m proud to tell me about meeting a beautiful girl, and instead of lying to her and trying to get her inside your bed, you just kissed her hand and asked for another date. I’m proud that you are finally showing your good heart to the world.” _

_ When Feuilly asked in the morning why he had a wet stain on his T-shirt, Bahorel told him that he fell asleep for a while and drooled at it. But they both knew it were tears. _

_ “Fucking rain,” Bahorel cursed as he took off his cap, which still didn’t protect him, and his hair was soaked. A puddle began to form beneath him. He sighed unhappily, wanting to swear again when he noticed a little boy sitting on a leather sofa, not far from him, in front of the front door. He looked frightened, with a backpack on his back and a box of several stuffed animals in his arms. “Hi,” he greeted him, but the boy just lowered his head and began to play with the ear of one of the plush rabbits. Bahorel shrugged, walked over to the entrance, rang the bell, and reported to the headmistress he’s here. In a few moments the door opened, and there stood a new, young orphanage headmistress. “I’m sorry, I’m late, I missed the bus and had to walk.” _

_ “It’s okay, Bahorel, you come here voluntarily, not like to your work,” she laughed, stepping back so he could come in. “Oh, Pierre, what are you still doing here? I thought you and Christine went to your room.” The boy didn’t even look at her, he continued to play with the stuffed animal. “Oh, Pierre.” The headmistress knelt in front of the boy and began talking to him. The boy was still silent. “Come inside,” she begged. But Pierre didn’t move. After five minutes, she gave up, saying— “I’ll be there in a minute.” — and entered her office. _

_ Bahorel stood in the doorway, his eyes darting between the corridor that led to the hall, where Feuilly was waiting for him with a gang of children preparing for their first theatrical rehearsal; and a boy sitting at a leather sofa. “Are you new here?” No answer. “I thought it was you! They said a new kid would come for the silent role, but I didn’t expect such a professional.” The boy looked at Bahorel and blinked in confusion several times. “You’re really good. Come on, the others are waiting.” He snatched the box of stuffed animals from the boy’s hands and showed him where to go. Pierre followed him in silence. When he opened the door to the hall, all the children began to greet him loudly. Pierre stood in the doorway, his hands clasped in the straps of his backpack. “Look who’s here here for the silent role.” He pointed to Pierre, who jumped slightly, but still couldn’t look up. Feuilly was inhaling to say something, but Bahorel whispered softly, “Newbie. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to talk. Play it with me.”  _

_ “Oh, I already thought you just don’t wanna see us!” Feuilly walked over to the boy, knelt in front of him, and tried to look him in the face. But the boy still looked away. “Don’t worry, no one will hurt you.” Feuilly noticed the tremors and the knuckles on his fingers unnaturally white. “If you just want to watch, feel free to sit on that bench over there. No one will disturb you.” With that, he got up and walked over to the children to explain the situation with the boy. Everyone understood it, and none of the children tried to talk to Pierre unnecessarily. He was sitting on a bench, his backpack still on his back. During the rehearsal, however, he finally looked up from the ground and began to look at the children in front of him. His gaze was still on Bahorel. As soon as their eyes met, Pierre always dodged. _

_ “Do you need anything?” Bahorel pulled the plug from his ear, where metal music began to flow. He watched the boy in front of him, holding a yellow rabbit in his arms and pressing it to his chest. The boy said nothing, just looked at him, his eyes darting between the rabbit and Bahorel. “Do you want to sit down?” He shifted in his seat to make room for the boy and some space between them. The boy took advantage of the offer, sat down on one edge and started playing with a rabbit. _

_ After half an hour, the boy asked quietly, “What are you listening to?” _

_ Bahorel was taken aback by his fragile voice, but replied, “One group you certainly don’t know. They’re older than you.” The boy looked at him for a moment, his mouth dropping a little, and his eyes twinkled. He just nodded and continued to stroke the stuffed animal in his lap. “But I just think you wouldn’t like them. It’s pretty rough music.” _

_ “I probably wouldn’t like that,” the boy admitted. “I don’t like anything that is rough.” _

_ Bahorel was beginning to feel that he was about to speak, for which he wasn’t ready. He looked around in confusion. Feuilly played football with the children and didn’t pay much attention to him. He tried to wave at him, but to no avail. “Yeah?” Bahorel finally asked, almost inaudibly. _

_ But the boy heard him, just nodded and added, “Uncle was rough.” _

_ “That’s bad.” He didn’t know if he meant the situation he was in or the boy was trying to tell him. _

_ “That’s why I’m here,” he said, finally looking at Bahorel. “Because Uncle was rough.” _

_ “And where were your parents?” Bahorel wanted to slap himself. And then again. Did he really now ask the boy, who had been sitting in the orphanage for a month, where his  _ parents  _ were? Slapping wouldn’t be enough. He should kick his balls. “S—” _

_ “I don’t know where they were. And I don’t know where they are. They probably aren’t even  _ there  _ anymore. I only know my aunt and uncle.” _

_ “Oh.” Bahorel bit his lip. “So maybe it’s a good thing you’re here when Uncle was bad, right?” _

_ “Everyone says that. But I don’t know… I…” The boy looked down at the stuffed animal again and began to shake gently. “I miss him.” _

_ “Who?” _

_ “Uncle.” The boy whimpered. “I miss that someone liked me. Even though people told me that he shouldn't like me that way.” _

_ Bahorel realized it. He didn’t need to know more to understand why the social worker had decided to bring the boy to the institution a month ago. He’s been here a month and he didn’t talked to anyone. He shunned the children and seemed almost afraid of the adults. He still held a yellow rabbit in his hands. “Did your uncle give you that?” He asked cautiously, pointing to the rabbit. The boy nodded. “Can I?” He held out his hand to him. The boy thought for a moment, but eventually gave him the rabbit. “Does he have a name?” He asked as he held out one of his ears and noticed that there was still dried blood on it. He didn’t even want to guess from what. _

_ “Apollo.” _

_ “Apollo? Like the God of Sun?” _

_ The boy opened his mouth in surprise and his eyes lit up. “Y-you know who Apollo is?” _

_ “Yeah, one of my friends is completely obsessed with Greek gods.” _

_ “W-wow,” the boy whispered, approaching Bahorel. “You’re the first to understand. I’m so happy!” His mouth formed into a small smile. _

_ His heart pounded. He also needed to smile. He didn’t know this sudden feeling of happiness and relief. What was it? “I’m glad.” He handed the boy back to the boy and asked, “And what’s your name?” _

_ “Pierre,” the boy said proudly, approaching Bahorel. “And yours?” _

_ “Bahorel—” He reached for the boy and added, “—I’m glad to meet you, Pierre.” _

_ “Me too!” The boy shouted excitedly as he clasped his hand. They both smiled broadly at each other. _

_ Bahorel never found out that Feuilly had been watching them all along. _

_ “Do you miss her?” Bahorel stopped looking into the telescope and turned to Feuilly, who had his head tilted and tried to find at least one constellation in the night sky. “Mum.” _

_ “Sometimes,” the elder admitted, sitting down in an outdoor chair and opening another beer. _

_ “And Dad?” _

_ Bahorel shrugged. “Maybe. It sounds weird, but they’re still my parents. So I miss them sometimes because they left me alone.” He laughed. “Which sounds really awful when I tell a boy who didn’t even know his parents.” _

_ “But I know.” _

_ “Really?” Bahorel asked in surprise. _

_ “Well, not in person. Obliviously. Is that a Big Bear over there?” _

_ “No, it looks more like Cassiopeia. Did you talk about your parents?” _

_ “Yeah, well, Mr. Petit told me about them. My dad brought me to the orphanage. I was about seven months old. You’d say I might remember something, but it's been almost twenty-five years. No, I really don't remember what he looked like or how he sounded. In fact, I have my first vague memories since elementary school. Well, anyway, my mom—” Feuilly pulled an old, crumpled photograph from his pocket and handed it to Bahorel. “—She was a nurse in a military camp. Dad was a soldier. They met on a mission in Baghdad. At that time, a bomb exploded almost under Dad’s feet. They told him that he was pretty lucky, only shrapnel hit him. He lay in the hospital for almost three months, my mother taking care of him the whole time. They say it was love at first sight. After half a year, my mother became pregnant and had to return to Paris. Dad was in Baghdad for a while. He returned a month before giving birth. Without legs—” Bahorel stopped looking at the photo and looked back at his friend, Feuilly looking somewhere into the void between them, a sad smile on his face. “—Without my mother, he wasn’t lucky. She left the healthy, adult man with the dreams and they returned her depressed wreckage that hated the world. Mom tried, but everything was in vain. She gave birth prematurely due to stress, unfortunately she lost a lot of blood and died. About two hours after I was born. They saved me but I was in hospital for another two months, I was lying in an incubator, no one came to see me. Then I somehow found myself with my dad, who didn’t know what to do with me. Neighbors, friends, even family helped him. But over time, their interest waned and Dad was left alone with me. And it got harder and harder. He even can accept himself now, let alone be able to take care of a helpless child. Once, when he was really sick and I cried all night, he couldn’t stand it. He took me in his arms, shook me several times and yelled. He cursed at me, at my mother, at himself, at war, at the whole world. Neighbors heard this, and when they saw him shaking with a limp little body, they called the police and paramedics. I can thank God nothing happened to me. It was a bit of a miracle—” Feuilly reached for Bahorel's fingers and took the photo back from him. He ran his fingertip gently over his parents' cheeks. He smiled. “—Dad realized, he regretted it, questioned his conscience, and wanted to hold me in his arms as soon as possible. But it was too late. A social worker came to him, the cops too. The show I was no longer a part of began. They took me to the orphanage to Mr. Petit. Dad was sentenced to five years in prison for minor injury and abuse of his own child. He never get in prison. He took his own life with his own weapon. They didn’t find out until a month after the suicide, when the neighbors began to complain about the stench from his apartment. " _

_ After a few minutes, Bahorel found that he was not breathing at all. He took a deep breath, exhaled, shook his head, and just said, “Fuck, that was something.” He finished his beer and reached straight for the next one. “Why - why are you telling me this?” _

_ “Um, who knows,” Feuilly laughed, hiding the photo back in his pocket. “Maybe because I want to show you that even though your own father wasn’t exactly a fatherhood model, there's never a reason why you shouldn't be a good man and father." _

_ Bahorel said nothing. _

_ “Half a year is a long time,” Pierre said as he planted another flower in the flowerbed. _

_ “As for what. Rotten food? Disgust. Girlfriend? Just in time for—” _

_ “Bahorel!” _

_ “—offer to buy a pet together. What were you thinking, Feuilly?” _

_ Feuilly blushed cutely. “L-like you don’t k-know!” _

_ Bahorel stuck his tongue maliciously at him. “Why do you even ask?” Pierre asked, looking at them in confusion because he didn’t understand what the two were talking about. _

_ "The headmistress said it was time to find my mom and dad.” There was the sound of a flowerpot just broken. Pierre and Feuilly jumped up and turned. Bahorel stood over the broken flower pot, his eyes a little wide. “Bah—” _

_ “I'll go get a new one.” _

_ Bahorel didn’t return to them that day. _

_ “Do you ever want kids?” Feuilly covered Bruno up to his neck and took a thermometer out of his mouth. His fever had subsided a little, but he was still sweating and his face was red. Winter has always been the worst time in an orphanage. It was enough for one child to become infected from school, and in a moment all the children went to bed with fevers. This winter was no exception. But Bruno needed special supervision, his weak heart slowly ceasing to control the onset of fever. _

_ Feuilly sat on the edge of the bed. Bruno turned on his side, pulled his hand out from under the blanket, and began looking for his. Feuilly grabbed him and squeezed hard. Bruno smiled from his sleep. “Yes,” he replied tenderly. “And you?” _

_ “I don't know,” Bahorel admitted. “Children are still strangers to me, but after that year and a half here - like, I guess so. But maybe not mine.” _

_ Feuilly looked at Bahorel in surprise. “Don't you say you want to adopt some?” _

_ Bahorel shrugged. “And why not?” Feuilly smiled broadly. “Stop smiling. You look like a madman.” _

_ “I’m just happy. Can you imagine taking Vincent home?” _

_ “The one that tears the dolls' arms and legs? No, thanks.” _

_ “Definitely Amelia.” _

_ “The one who only plays the house and forces the boys to wear clothes? I don’t look good in a skirt.” _

_ “Nicole?” _

_ “Until I marry someone, she will be a beautiful woman, and I would not like to break any laws.” _

_ “Ugh, you're disgusting.” They both laughed out loud. “So if you could, who would you choose?” _

_ “Pierre,” Bahorel said thoughtlessly. _

_ Feuilly was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “The boy has grown very close to your heart, hasn't he?” _

_ "Shut up.” _

_ Feuilly understood that he was right. _

_ “You're really skilled,” Feuilly said enthusiastically, looking at the graph paper, which was foreign to him, but he knew from the number next to Bahorel’s name that he was doing best in their division. He laughed when he laid the paper on the table and looked at Bahorel when he saw his red ears and face. _

_ “Don’t laugh, you asshole, I hate this.” _

_ “What? When I praise you?” _

_ “Yeah!" _

_ “Then I'll stop.” Bahorel opened his mouth to confirm it, but he couldn’t. He growled in displeasure, and Feuilly laughed again. “But no, really, I mean it. You are skilled. What would I give for such results!” _

_ “You're a better worker than I am,” Bahorel tried to stop his praise. _

_ “Not really! Hardly mediocre, and falling asleep on shifts already bothers my boss. Hope he doesn’t fire me soon…” _

_ “I hope not.” _

_ “Don't worry, fortunately I'm giving a performance for three people, but it could still be better. So, what would you like for such an outcome?” _

_ “Plum pie.” _

_ “You deserve it! Sweet-shop?" _

_ Bahorel ran down the hall, removed Feuilly’s coat from the hanger, and threw it at him. “Don't ask any more questions and get dressed!” Feuilly could only laugh. _

_ “You're really good, Pierre,” Feuilly complimented the boy as he stroked his hair. “You improved your French! I’m proud of you.” _

_ “They told me that is better when I speak.” _

_ “It really is!” Feuilly wrapped his arms around him and hugged him for a moment. It only took a few seconds for Pierre to start pulling away from him and scratching his face nervously. After a year in the orphanage, he finally talked about his past, was able to play with the children, and even confide in a social worker about what was happening at their home before his aunt and uncles took him. However, he had only one condition - Bahorel had to be there. He protested at first, but as soon as Pierre looked at him with those big, roe-eyed eyes, he agreed. A few nights after the sessions, he sat in the Corinth over his absinthe, trying to process everything he heard. He then slept on Feuilly’s couch for a month. He didn't want to be alone. It was from Bahorel that he knew that Pierre had avoided any unnecessary physical contact with humans. Especially men. “You'll be able to write the poem you wanted.” Pierre’s eyes lit up. He had been talking for months about writing a poem to Bahorel. He heard on the radio that this was the best way to confess his true emotions and deep affection to someone. When Feuilly first heard this, he had to smile for a few more days. The bond that had developed between them was the most beautiful thing he had experienced in recent years. _

_ “What are you talking about?” Bahorel asked as he sat down next to them and let out a loud sigh. Today, the children decided to chase him around the garden today. It was pretty exhausting. _

_ “About Pierre’s school results.” Bahorel took a piece of paper from Feuilly, looked at it, and whistled admiringly. “Exactly. You’re proud of him, too, aren’t you?” Bahorel just nodded. Pierre smiled and looked down contentedly. “It's just a pity that some objects still don't work for him. Maybe if he saw someone else's school results…” _

_ “No way,” Bahorel said seriously, returning the paper. “No one will ever persuaded me to go again in the f—" _

_ “Bahorel.” _

_ “—freaking school.” _

_ “But you could set an example for Pierre. And not just for him.” _

_ “Don’t try.” _

_ “Is Bahorel studying?” They both looked at Pierre, who blinked sweetly. “I want to see Bahorel’s results!” _

_ “It's not worth it now,” Feuilly said, sighing in disappointment. “He’s useless.” _

_ “Hey! Stop it! I said I didn't like the school.” _

_ “Because you haven't found a proper dream in it yet. Pierre, do you know what you want to do when you're older?” _

_ “I want to be a writer!” _

_ “You see, Pierre knows what he wants to do.” _

_ “And you want to stay in the fan factory for the rest of your life?” _

_ “No. You know I want to be a chef someday.” _

_ Bahorel pursed his lips. “Yeah,” he said as soon as he realized they'd talked about it several times. _

_ “And what are you?” Pierre asked curiously. _

_ “Lawyer,” Feuilly said for him. “Well - he could be. If he tried.” _

_ “I tried! But the school just isn’t for me.” _

_ “On the contrary, look at how wonderfully you argue.” _

_ “It's not the same as a lawyer.” _

_ “Well, that's about it.” _

_ Bahorel sighed loudly. “Stop it, Feuilly.” _

_ “I'm just saying it's a shame.” Feuilly shrugged and stood up. “You have a talent for it. Arguing, discussing, but also thinking logically. Distance yourself from your work, and still remain passionate about everything it contains. Maybe if you found the right field, you’d be a great lawyer.” _

_ That night, Bahorel sat at his computer, researching the fields his school offered. _

_ “Can we try again?” Bahorel sat across from Feuilly, his hands on his knees, looking unnaturally serious. Feuilly just sighed, nodded, closed his eyes, and waited for Bahorel to kiss him. Again. When he pulled away from him in a few seconds, only a thoughtful  _ Hm  _ sounded, and they were both silent for a good five minutes. _

_ “Can we get back to the game?” _

_ “You can't wait to rip my ass, can you?” _

_ “In the current situation, it's just a phrase that's absolutely inappropriate.” _

_ “Absolutely?” _

_ “Absolutely.” _

_ “Hmm.” Bahorel tapped his chin several times and sighed. “It would be easier if I wanted to fuck you.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “At least that would explain why my heart is still pounding after three years, like I'm drinking red bulls all night.” _

_ “If it bothers you, go to the cardiologist.” _

_ Within a week, he had an inspection that proved that he was as healthy. It was the first time Bahorel had hoped for any negative news. It would take more than the confusion he’d felt in recent years. _

_ “I'd like to be a juror for Pierre Martin's case.” _

_ Odette looked at him through her crescent moon glasses and shrugged. “If you want.” _

_ “Thank you,” he said, entering a room that was almost empty. There were only five people sitting in a chair that Bahorel didn’t recognize. Half an hour later, three policemen entered the room, leading a small, chubby man with more hair in his armpits than his head. When a judge, dressed in his usual black robe, entered the room and asked everyone in the room to sit down - the trial began. _

_ After four hours, Bahorel knocked on Feuilly's door. He opened them immediately. Bahorel flew into the apartment like an unguided missile. He headed straight for the sideboard where Feuilly was hiding alcohol. He unscrewed the cork of one of them and drank a good half just by one gulp. When the alcohol finally cooled his parched neck, he began to tear all his clothes off. Before he entered the bathroom, they were all over the apartment. In the bathroom, he just ripped off his shorts, climbed into the tub, and poured a cold water on himself. He shouted, but no one entered the bathroom. _

_ Feuilly knew Bahorel needed to cool down. After half an hour he knocked on the bathroom door, and even without answering, he went inside. Bahorel sat in the bathtub, his legs crouched at his chest, shower head on his knees, and his body dripping with hot drops. He looked away absently. He seemed to be thinking about something. _

_ Feuilly sat on the edge of the tub, running his fingers through Bahorel’s hair and forcing him to lie on his thigh. He stroked him so gently for a few minutes until he felt the vein in his temple stop beating furiously. “I've made up my mind,” Bahorel broke the silence between them. “I want to defend child victims of domestic violence.” _

_ He slept in Feuilly’s bed for the first time that night. _

_ “How would you define a father pattern?” A young woman asked the circle of children. _

_ “Strong!” Cried a girl, pointing to imaginary muscles in her arms. _

_ “Fearless!” The boy shouted, jumping up in a chair. _

_ “Feuilly!” _

_ Feuilly was sitting with Bahorel at the table where he was eating a snack when a bun got stuck in his throat because of what Pierre shouted. Bahorel had to hit him in the back several times. “H-how did you think of that, Pierre?” He asked. _

_ “You’re strong and fearless.” _

_ “And you're incredibly nice, too,” one of the girls added. _

_ “And you're telling the best fairy tales in the world!” The children began to nod. _

_ “You treat the wounds best every time! When you treat it, it heals the fastest!” _

_ “And you sing beautifully!” _

_ “And you like dancing with me!” _

_ “I've heard the older girls say you're very nice for your age, and they hope to grow up soon so you notice them as well. But I don't know much about what that means.” _

_ Feuilly blushed in praise. “S-stop you all, let Mrs. Nicole talks, okay?” The children pursed their lips but listened to him. They didn't mention his name anymore, but sometimes they pointed to him and whispered something softly. _

_ It was the day Bahorel finally realized how he felt about Feuilly. _

_ “You're like a fake dad.” _

_ “What?” Feuilly asked in surprise, holding a burger inches from his lips and looking confusedly at Bahorel, who was mesmerizing the fries on his plate. “I guess I heard it badly.” _

_ “You heard me right,  _ Daddy _.” _

_ “Stop it,” Feuilly protested nervously, placing the burger back on the plate. “Are you trying to seduce me?” _

_ “Would you ever seduce your dad?” _

_ “Are we in porn? Then yes.” _

_ “No, we're in reality.” _

_ “Then  _ no fucking way. _ ” _

_ “Exactly!” Bahorel slammed his fist on the table until both of their plates jumped. _

_ “Don't hit it, you'll break something.” _

_ “This!” _

_ “What?” _

_ “The thing you just said! You're like a dad!” Bahorel smiled and took a deep breath. “It’s just that - as we’re still together and talking and we both have or don't, like this, we've had shitty lives like this — I’ll start from the beginning. Feuilly, since I’ve—” _

_ “I don't know what you're trying to say, but you're making me pretty nervous. Forget the sauce around, tell me what's going on.” _

_ “You're  _ my  _ fake dad.” _

_ Feuilly blinked in confusion. “I-I don't think I understand.” _

_ “Well, you know, a lot of people have always told me I'm just weird. Like, too rude, aggressive, unbalanced. All I had to do to shut them up was punch them a few times and they immediately stopped. But! Now it's like I can't do it. Because I know you hate violence. And I've been with you long enough to understand how children respond to parents' roles in their lives. I understood that what had happened to me before was because the role model of the man was for me - my Dad. Mentally unbalanced man who loved alcohol and violence. So I acted that way too. But somewhere deep in my heart, I always - always hoped he will praise me someday. That he’ll apologize for everything. That he will finally say -  _ son, I am proud of you _. But it never happened because… because… well just…” _

_ “Bahorel—” Feuilly stood up, walked over to Bahorel, grabbed his chin, and made him look at him. “—I think I understood. You've missed your father's love your whole life, haven't you?” Bahorel nodded. “And when did you realize that?” _

_ “After some time with you,” the elder admitted. _

_ Feuilly smiled. “So I'm a father model for you?” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ Feuilly was taken aback by his directness. He expected a poisonous remark, but instead received only a serious word and a staring look that spoke for itself. Bahorel meant it. What he was saying now wasn’t a game. It was a fact. “I really thought I loved you for a long time. And I have to tell you, it would be easier than explaining this to you now. I feel really bad. As if—” _

_ “Enough, don't worry about it—” Feuilly pressed Bahorel’s head against his chest and kissed his hair once, twice, three times. “-I understood it. My  _ fake son _.” _

_ Their dinners get cold that day. _

_ “Didier Martin is sentenced to an exceptional prison sentence of twenty years.” Bahorel jumped to his feet, left the room, closed the door behind him, and shoute: “Yes! Fuck yes!” He waved his fists in the air several times, as if he were punching someone. He ran out of the building and ran to Feuilly’s apartment as quickly as possible. “Open the door, open the door, open the door!” _

_ “What's going on?” Feuilly asked, still tired of the night shift. “I just slept for t—” _

_ He didn't finish. Bahorel jumped around his neck, pressed against him, and said with tears in his eyes, “I did it. I did it! Those meetings with Pierre served as important evidence. Only I was able to talk with him about it. Only I was able to get it out of him. He just believed me. Me! Feuilly, he’s going to jail. He'll never hurt Pierre again. Never! I did it!” He buried his nose in Feuilly's bare shoulder, where hot tears fell. _

_ “Bahorel, oh Bahorel,” Feuilly whispered softly, returning a firm hug and feeling tears welling up in his eyes. “You did it!” _

_ “I did it!” _

_ “I'm so proud of you, Bahorel.” They pulled away, Feuilly took Bahorel's cheeks in his hands and smiled broadly at him. Despite the tears in his eyes, he could see Bahorel staring at him. “I am proud of you, I am proud of you, my  _ fake son _.” He laid his forehead on his. _

_ Bahorel's voice got stuck in his throat and he moaned - neither of them could tell if it was happy or sad. He closed his eyes and said quietly, “Thank you,  _ Dad _.” _

_ That night, for the first time, they fell asleep in each other's arms. _

They lived in a routine. And even though Bahorel was an animal that couldn’t be tied, Feuilly succeeded. He tamed his dark selves, which he buried somewhere deep inside. It was still there, sometimes surfanced, and Bahorel then had to apologize to the people around him for his behavior; but otherwise it began to change slowly. It took several years, but people began to notice his changes. And even though it seemed strange to someone, Bahorel was glad for it. It seemed to him that he would be like that from the beginning - if he had the right upbringing, he might never be what he once was.

_ “It would be a shame, I fell in love with you even before the change!”  _ Feuilly once objected when he mentioned it. Instead of answering, Bahorel threw on his stinky socks and ordered him to wash them. Instead of listening, Feuilly began to pretend he died.

Bahorel therefore understood that when he had someone next to him who, for the first time in his life, cared about whether he had something to eat, what to drink, where to lie down, what made him happy, what his job was, how he was doing at school - everything could be managed. He could suddenly be more confident and proud. He found the dream he was approaching, and with the support Feuilly was building, he knew it was unfulfilled.

Feuilly became a role model for him, which he didn’t even look for, but he was glad that he appeared in his life.

He was therefore to be glad that Pierre - the good young boy who had gone through several horrors in his short seven-year life - had found his family. His  _ father _ , his  _ mother _ . And even though they  _ weren’t the blood related _ , they were to become _ the real ones _ . Bahorel saw them in the orphanage several times. He saw Pierre and they having fun, playing with him, smiling at him. But most of all, he sensed the joy that radiated from Pierre every time they appeared between the doors. It had been two months since they had publicly stated that they were considering Pierre’s adoption, and since then the little boy had done nothing more than hypnotize the phone to announce that their request had been granted and that he could officially become their son.

Although Bahorel still publicly denied it, Pierre was important to him. He developed a relationship with him - not fatherly, but  _ brotherly _ . And the bond seemed even stronger. He only hoped for one thing - Pierre's happiness. He should therefore be glad that a family has finally been found who was able to give it to him.

So why he wasn’t happy?

“I can hear you thinking,” Feuilly growled unhappily.

“I'm sorry,” Bahorel whispered softly into his chest.

“Bahorel, do you like Pierre?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know his future parents?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how they fell in love with him?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know how much Pierre fell in love with them?”

“…Yes.”

Feuilly smiled, kissed Bahorel in the hair, and before they both fell asleep said softly, “You showed him what love is. You taught him to love. And he is able to give that love now. Just like I taught you what it means to have someone by your side who really cares about you. You taught him to be a good son because you are a  _ great son _ . Let him prove to the world this.”

Bahorel smiled from sleeping all night.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [2WNikiAngel](http://www.2wnikiangel.tumblr.com) a newly on Wattpad [Niki Angel](https://www.wattpad.com/user/2W_NikiAngel)


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